Why I Am a Trinitarian: Part Two

In this second Part – the first Part is not yet complete, but I have been asked by a poster there to explain why I think Jesus is God – I am moving from the logical to the theological. I always intended to explain my thinking in this second Part after concluding the first Part, which focuses on overcoming a logical difficulty with Trinitarianism, but I guess they may as well proceed on parallel tracks, although one builds on the other.

By way of brief recap that I hope will pique your interest in Part One: Orthodox Trinitariaism is threatened on one side by accusations of tritheism (Father, Son and Holy Spirit are three Gods), and on the other by accusations of modalism (Father, Son and Holy Spirit are mere modes of the same single entity) – and while always striving to bend to neither, a bend away from one is often a bend toward the other. Thus, emphasizing the distinctiveness of Father, Son and Holy Spirit in fending off modalist challenges seems to be a nod toward tritheism; and vice versa.

My thesis in Part One was – is – that standing the middle ground requires distinguishing “is the same deity as” from “is the same person as,” i.e., maintaining that these two descriptive relations are not equivalent characterizations. Stated another way, defense of a tripersonal God (I prefer “triune” God, but we can use the adjectives interchangeably for now) requires two context-dependent definitions of “God” – one defining “God” as the Trinity itself, another defining “God” as a single divine person of that Trinity.

Isolating the “stuff” of “Godness” may be impossible to express in human terms, but we don’t need to do so; we only need to hold that whatever that ousia may be, it subsists in each of the three “Persons” within the Trinity. It may help to use a musical analogy here, one I am indebted to Jeremy Begbie for. Think of a chord composed of three different notes, say the chord C major composed of the notes C, E and G. Each note is a sound, and when played together the C chord is likewise a sound. In each case the sound is recognizable as what we call “music.” By analogy of “deity” to “music,” each of the three persons, like each note of the chord, is deity (music), and together they form deity (music) through three distinct sounds (persons). But the real harmony is in the Trinity (chord). Played simultaneously, the individual notes comprising the chord are subsumed in a single identifiable sound; our ear does not immediately pick the chord apart (although we can do so intellectually, and on the sheet music). It’s just music to the ear. It’s just God.

With that background, why do I think the Trinity properly describes the Godhead? (I’ve never liked that word “Godhead” much; it vaguely reminds me of a three-headed Hydra!). To start, let me do it by re-telling a story . . .

Timothy sat next to me in the stern, silently watching the sail billowing, appearing deep in thought. I knew that look—and knew not to interrupt it. At length he spoke.

“I have been thinking through the night,” he said, “of how best to describe Jesus’ nature. It is difficult to do, for I am convinced that he has a dual nature, that of both God and man—although at first blush one nature would appear to exclude the other. This is what you wish to understand, Mark, is it not—how one can simultaneously be both the son of God and son of man?”

“That is precisely my question. As I believe, God has no body; God is pure spirit, uncreated, always existing, existing before there ever was a physical world—a physical world which God created. I see it as inconsistent for an incorruptible and immortal spiritual being to have flesh and blood, bone and sinew, which by nature corrupt and die.”

“Ah, just as I thought,” Timothy smiled. “You see the dilemma as one of logical impossibility, Mark.”

“What do you mean, logical impossibility?”

“I mean an impossibility which follows from the very definition of the terms used. For example, even presuming that God is all powerful and can do anything, He still cannot make a square circle—or make a stone so heavy that even He cannot lift it—yet these ‘inabilities’ are not true limitations on His omnipotence, because they are mutually exclusive by definition. Do you see?”

“I think I do.”

“These physical qualities of man you mention, having corruptible flesh, blood, bone and sinew—you would agree that they are separate from the quality of a man’s soul or spirit, and not of its essence?”

“Of course.”

“And indeed, we have already posited that the soul can have life beyond the physical life of the body, haven’t we?”

“We have.”

“A soul could logically be clothed with mortal flesh, even on a human plane, then, without destroying its essence?”

“That follows.”

“And may we define ‘man’ as a being having both a body and a soul, the one physical and corruptible, the other spiritual and incorruptible?”

“We may.”

“Similarly, your objection to Jesus’ being both God and man was that God, as a pure spirit, is eternal and incorruptible; must we not also say that God’s spirit, no less than man’s, could logically be clothed with mortal flesh without destroying its essence?”

“No doubt that is so.”

“Then the partaking of a divine spirit and a human body at once is not of the character of logical impossibilities; which is to say, it is not inconsistent by definition. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“So, if a divine spirit in a human body is not logically impossible, then it must be within an omnipotent God’s power to achieve, must it not?”

“In those terms, Timothy, I would agree; nevertheless, I would say that the divine spirit and the human soul are truly different even if both be capable of eternal life—for the one is created, the other does the creating, existing from all time prior to all creation. If Jesus was created, was born into the world, then I cannot see how he could also be uncreated God.”

“You have begged the question, Mark! You have presumed that Jesus was created in respect of both body and soul. But that need not be the case.”

“Explain.”

“To be truly human, created in the flesh, he would of necessity have been born of a woman, would he not?”

“Yes.”

“To be truly divine, uncreated spirit, he would of necessity have been begotten directly of God, would he not?”

“Again, yes. But how can both be possible?”

“It is written by the prophet Isaiah, ‘the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.’ I contend that that this prophecy has been fulfilled in Jesus.”

For an instant, I was taken aback; the possibility of the passage’s reference to the birth of Jesus had never occurred to me. I had always translated the Hebrew word almah to mean young girl at the age of puberty rather than its alternative translation virgin—and had presumed that the son referred to in this passage was Hezekiah, the son of King Ahaz to whom this prophesy was made. Who could blame me? The notion of a divine father and a human mother was popular in Greek mythology and legend, but quite foreign to Judaism. There was, of course, the metaphorical reference early in the Book of Genesis to the “sons of God” taking wives from among the daughters of men prior to the Great Flood and producing the race of giants known as the Nephilim, but I had always understood those “sons of God” as being angels, and not true deities.

Timothy must have seen the look of puzzlement on my face. “Suspend your disbelief for a moment, Mark, and consider: if God, being pure spirit, were ever to take on flesh and become one of us, how could it be otherwise than by a virgin birth? For if the seed of a man had caused Jesus to grow in his mother’s womb, then he would have been born simply human, and not the son of God at all. He would, being man, have had to become God at a later time—which we have agreed is illogical.”

“I must confess, I had never considered that.”

“And let us go further: being begotten of God need not mean being created by God, but merely emanating from God—and all the while of one being with God. Do you see this as well?”

“I must ask you to elaborate, Timothy.”

“We spoke earlier of time as a measure of change, and of the distinction between everlasting existence in a universe of change, and the eternal ‘now’ which does not change; do you recall?”

“I do.”

“Is ours not a temporal universe of change?”

“Assuredly so.”

“And is God’s?”

“Assuredly not; He is unchanging.”

“In our world, if a man creates something, there surely was a point in time when he existed but his creation did not. Is not that the nature of creation; creator always precedes creature in time?”

“Of course.”

“Similarly, if a man procreates, he must of necessity have existed in time prior to his child, must he not?”

“I agree—although perhaps we may say that the seed which became his child was always present within him, or at least latent within him.”

“Yes, but even there, would it not be accurate to say that the latent or potential child is surely different from the actual child, which comes to be what we properly describe as a child later in time?”

“True.”

“But if, in God’s world, all is immutable and time has no application, would it not be contradictory to speak of a prior ‘time’ when God existed, yet that which emanates from Him did not?”

“It would be. But could not the same argument be made as to any of God’s creations? This world, for example: if God created it, must it not, by the same logic, always have existed?”

Timothy’s wry smile widened slightly. “You beg the question, Mark. Before God creates a changeable universe, there is nothing to which time can apply; true?”

“I suppose that is so.”

“Then the universe that God created would not always have existed, nor was there a point in ‘time’ when He created it, God Himself being timeless; do you see?”

“I think I do.”

“If a son of God exists—by which I mean a being begotten of God so as to be fully of His essence—he will likewise be timeless, will he not?”

“Yes.”

“Then that which emanates from God—a son begotten of God—could not have been created, but was (and is) eternally a manifestation of God. In such a timeless realm, the son exists, but did not begin to exist; he always was. Would that not follow?”

“It would.”

“Is it not then also logically possible that God intervened in our changeable, created world, at a point in its time, by sending His son into the world to take on human form?”

“Certainly.”

“Can we now agree, it is possible that God took on a mortal human form in the person of Jesus, without compromise of His divine essence —including the essential quality of not being created?”

“I will agree.”

“Now let us look at this mystery from the opposite side: If God can partake of our humanity, is there any sense in which man can partake of God’s divinity?” Timothy paused briefly, a pregnant pause for effect, giving me to know that something important was about to pass his lips. “Perhaps here, Mark, you may find an answer to your questions about salvation.”

I could feel the joy of discovery descending on me, like a child experiencing the thrill of learning how to read, or to solve arithmetic problems for the first time. I recalled Timothy’s admonishment when the voyage began: if an answer feels right, if it yields that same sense in the depths of my being of something true as when the Way was first shown to me, I must trust it, and embrace it regardless of logical proof. Timothy’s explanations were feeling right. I didn’t want the feeling to wane.

“Tell me more,” I pleaded.

Timothy, however, displayed no sense of urgency in exploring the subject further. “Soon, soon. But we have had enough discourse for now, my brother. I have promised our new friend, the Cretan merchant, that I would spend some time to speak with him of the Way—and I see him waving to us!”

I had practically roused Timothy from his sleep, and he could hardly have helped sensing how anxious I was to continue our discussion. Yet he maintained his unhurried composure, as serene as ever. As he went aft to stretch his legs, I turned and leaned against the top wale of the ship, gazing toward the horizon, smelling the salt and feeling the spray of the sea as the ship rose and fell with each wave. This journey, I knew, would end all too quickly, and what awaited us in Rome I could only guess. If I was to be truly useful to Paul, I was running out of time to conquer the self-doubt that had plagued me.

When Timothy returned, it was with the countenance of a man on a mission.

“Where did we leave our discussion of yesterday, Mark?” Before I could answer, he exclaimed “Ah, yes! How man may partake in God’s divinity, wasn’t it?” With that, he stood up abruptly, making his way to our two trunks we had stowed in the stern of the boat. I followed dutifully. . .

“Tell me, my Jewish brother: what is it, above all else, that unites all Jews everywhere, whatever their place of birth, language, or vagaries of their individual beliefs?”

Surprised though I was by the question, I did not need to think for even a second to come up with the answer. “The sacrifice regularly offered in the inner court of the Temple on Mount Zion.”

“And what is sacrificed there? Is it not the flesh and blood of an unblemished animal?”

“Yes.”

“And for whom is that sacrifice offered? For Jews only, or for Gentiles as well?”

“Only for Jews, Timothy. The sacrifice is prescribed by the Law, and Gentiles are not bound by the Law. Paul’s teachings have made that much consistently clear, I would think.” Only later would I think of the inconsistency with this teaching that Paul had exhibited in having Timothy himself circumcised. But Timothy, the ultimate logician, made no mention of it here.

“Then what is the sacrifice which unites Christian believers as well? Is it not our Lord’s death?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“And how are these believers to partake of that sacrifice? Can there be a better way than in consuming the very bread and wine—the very flesh and blood—which commemorates that death, and having consumed it, allow it to become a part of our very bodies?”

For a moment, I was without words; all I could do was nod my assent.

“Let us go further: is it not a commandment of the law of Moses—indeed, from the time of God’s admonition to Noah—that blood must never be consumed?”

“That is so; the blood of an animal is deemed to contain its life essence, which belongs to God. Thus no animal killed by strangulation may be eaten, for such means of slaughter leaves blood in the meat. As it is sacred to God, all blood must be poured out and not be consumed.”

“Yet our Lord commands us to drink his very blood—a sharing, then, in his life essence. But only if he is truly God will his blood, his life essence, represent eternal life, and allow those who consume it to partake of that eternal life. And since God is pure spirit and not flesh and blood, it was necessary for God to become incarnate for this to occur. It was necessary for God to take on flesh and blood, and for God-become-man to
become the sacrificial lamb, to accomplish this.”

Once again I could only nod my agreement; I was far too excited by Timothy’s insight to speak.

“Do you not see it all, Mark? Man’s sharing in the divine essence; Christ as God-become-man; his death as a sacrifice for the sins of man; the bread and wine as his flesh and blood; the communion of his church; all are facets of the same single truth, the same identity!”

My pulse was racing! I knew to a certainty that Timothy’s words contained a great and transforming message. I did not want to lose the moment, but somehow I knew that I needed time to digest what I had just heard. It was as though pieces of a puzzle had been thrust so close in front of my eyes that the picture they formed could not come into focus without a step back. Although putting them into a coherent whole was all that
mattered to me at that moment, I knew the moment could not be rushed.

Timothy obliged me, albeit unknowingly. “We will discuss this again later, Mark,” he said as he rose. “But right now, I must speak further with the boatswain.”

This was to be a night of very little sleep for me.

Today, Timothy seemed even more anxious to open the conversation than I—albeit with a question that I did not expect.

“Do you feel the love of God, Mark?”

My hesitation in answering so simple yet disarming a question was fueled by equal parts of surprise and embarrassment. “I . . . I . . . often do feel it, yes. Yes, of course, Timothy!” My words did not sound convincing to myself, and I was sure that they did not convince Timothy, either.

“Tell me, then: what does it feel like?”

It was obvious that Timothy was looking for a more profound answer than I could muster on the spot, but I fumbled as best I could. “Peace, contentment, thankfulness for good fortune, being blessed with good health . . .”

As I spoke, Timothy closed his eyes and shook his head, two fingers on his temple, putting himself in the wrong to ease my difficulty. “No, no, that is not my question—or rather, I’ve asked the question too broadly. These feelings you describe are accidental qualities that may perhaps be generated from any number of sources. What I meant to ask is, can you describe the unique experience of God’s love, in terms of His presence in your life? How do you know it is God, it is His love, that you feel when you say you feel it?”

Gathering myself, I paused for a reflective moment, and responded. “There are times—rare moments, to be sure—when I have sensed the presence of a power beyond my comprehension, when I have felt somehow connected to something so much greater than myself that I can only stand in awe. The feeling might be brought on by just about anything, from a beautiful vista to the funeral of a loved one. At those times, I have been suddenly overwhelmed by a peace, a serenity that cannot be adequately described. Inevitably the feeling wanes and quickly leaves, becoming an exquisite yet fading memory, leaving behind a hope, even a longing, for the next encounter. It can scarcely be put into words. Are those the words you ask me for now, Timothy?”

“Yes! That is it precisely! Do you understand such experiences as being given a brief taste of union with God?”

“I suppose that is one way to put it—although ‘union’ may be putting it a bit strongly.”

“Not too strongly at all, Mark. You hesitate to express this feeling in terms of union with the Almighty because you have been imbued in the Jewish
view of God as so supreme, so fundamentally different and other than created, sinful man that it is blasphemous even to hint at the possibility of a union with God.”

“No doubt I am a product of my culture; you must forgive me!”

“I do. Yet I am convinced that that union is exactly what the experience of God’s love is about.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean no more than that the goal of love is always union with its object.”

“Explain.”

“Let us analogize to love on a human plane, for example in a marriage. Marriage is the undertaking of a way of life in which two people commit to each other, foregoing other liaisons, and forging a union to fulfill each other’s emotional, physical, and social needs as best as they can—and in this way forming a spiritual bond; is that not so?”

“Certainly.”

“If I ‘love’ my wife, do I not then seek union with her, emotionally and physically; do I not seek to form that spiritual bond, to become a ‘unit’ not only in social and economic terms but in spiritual terms?”

“Yes.”

“For us to love God, and for God to love us, must similarly entail the forging of such a union; do you not agree?”

“I suppose I must agree, but I still see union with God as a very different thing.”

“Tell me how.”

“In a marriage I see, hear and touch my mate—indeed, I can be completely physically intimate with her—and this reinforces the experience of spiritual union. In a relationship with God, the physical senses do not translate the experience of union. If it cannot be sensed, I do not see how something can be experienced.”

“Yet you have just described for me those fleeting, rapturous moments when you have become awestruck by the power of a presence beyond yourself; is that not an experience of spiritual union akin to, if not on a level beyond, what is experienced in marriage?”

“That is so.”

“Then the physical senses cannot be strictly necessary to the experience of a spiritual union, can they?”

“I suppose not.”

“And how does one come to achieve spiritual union with a spouse? Is it not through the way of life embodied in the marriage, a longstanding appreciation of the mutual commitment, sharing and sacrifice made by the partners to the union over an extended period of time?”

“I am sure you are correct.”

“My belief is that our experience of union with God comes about in much the same way. Over time, an appreciation of the love, commitment and sacrifice of God-become-man in the person of our Lord simply translates into the experience of spiritual union as a living reality.”

“But such love seems so one-sided,” I objected, “not at all as in a marriage.”

“I believe it is to be found in a proper understanding of the incarnation, death and resurrection of Jesus as God-become-man. To understand the meaning of those events, and to appropriate their meaning into a present consciousness of union with God, we must first see Jesus as the embodiment of God’s relationship to man, or more generally, of God’s relationship to creation.”

“Explain.”

“A while ago, we were speaking of your religious and cultural bias against any view of God forging a spiritual union with mankind; do you recall?”

“Yes.”

“Your notion that God and man are so fundamentally distinct as to preclude any possibility of spiritual union; is this not based on your view of God as sinless and mankind as sinful?”

“It is.”

“Ah.” Timothy paused briefly, as if for effect. “We must find a way for you to overcome that notion.”

“Why? Is God not sinless, and is man not sinful? Indeed, did we not speak earlier of the sacrifice of God’s own son as the perfect means for
forgiveness of sin?”

“Indeed. But if you continue to view the distance between sinless God and sinful man as existing solely because of the sin, will you not then place your entire focus on the forgiveness of sin, on the sacrifice made by our Lord on the cross, as the exclusive means of experiencing union with God?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then your focus is too narrow, Mark. By focusing on the crucifixion, you miss seeing the birth of the God-man as itself bridging the gap between God and man—the concurrence of Godhood and manhood that has been brought about by the incarnation of God in the person of the man Jesus of Nazareth. It is his birth, not his death, which first joined together the divine and human essences so as to make man’s union with God
palpable in the first place!”

This was something that Paul, focused always on the cross, had never spoken of, at least not to me. “Please explain,” I urged.

“Throughout history, when mankind has tried to understand God as creator, the created and the uncreated have been viewed as incompatible by nature. This view of two substantively different beings, the One so transcendent and the other so contingent, is a hindrance to the proper understanding of the relation between God and man.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, by ignoring the extent to which the Creator’s essence is already immanent in His creatures. Do you recall God’s answer when Moses asked God what he should tell the Israelites was God’s name?”

“Eheyeh asher Eheyeh. ‘I am who I am,’ or ‘I am He who exists.’”

“And do you see that in asking for God’s name, Moses was asking for a description of God’s very essence?”

“Yes.”

“So by this answer, did not God declare that His essence is existence?”

“I agree.”

“And it is precisely here, Mark, that insisting on the ‘otherness’ of God obscures a deeper truth regarding the ‘isness’ of God. Creator and creature are different, to be sure—God’s existence is necessary, whereas ours is not—but the fundamental nature of God as the very source of existence itself, as pure Being, is one in which all beings, all that exists, must of necessity partake in some measure.”

“That makes sense.”

“And would it not be fair to say that man, made in God’s image and possessing an immortal soul, possesses an even greater measure of this essence than other creatures?”

“That is fair.”

“And let us go further: if God and man were by nature incompatible, would it not be logically impossible, as we have earlier defined that notion, for God and man ever to have become united in the person of Jesus?”

“Certainly.”

“So then, the union of God and man is possible, is it not?”

“I must agree. If we accept that Jesus was literally the Son of God, not in any metaphorical sense, we must accept the possibility of union of the divine and human natures.”

“It remains for us to understand how that possibility of union becomes a reality for the rest of us,” Timothy expounded. “And here we must ask: is there a true separateness between God and man as a result of man’s sinfulness, which awaits the expiation of a sacrifice before it may be bridged? Or is that perceived separateness a distortion of a higher reality which man’s sinfulness simply prevents him from recognizing?”

“I sense from your tone, Timothy, that you maintain the latter!”

“You sense correctly, Mark. I believe that God is within all of us, if only we have the wisdom to see Him there. And tomorrow, I will do my best to explain precisely how.”

Although I was anxious to continue our dialogue, Timothy was preparing for this final leg of our sea voyage with an extended time of silent prayer, and I had no wish to disturb him. I waited until we were well underway and the sun fully above the eastern hills before pressing him.

At length Timothy turned his attention to me. “Shall we continue our discussion of yesterday, Mark?”

“I would like nothing more,” I replied.

“We were speaking of whether there is a true separateness between God and man as a result of man’s sinfulness—or whether man’s sinfulness prevents him from experiencing the reality of union with God that is innate within us; were we not?”

“Precisely.”

“Then today, I have a contention to put forward—and let me confess up front that I cannot prove it logically—but you must promise not to judge it too quickly, not until we have finished. Are we agreed?”

“We are.”

“I contend that divine transcendence and divine immanence are not incompatible notions. I contend that the experience of unity with God is latent within each human being, and that one of its effects is our innate moral sense, our awareness of the difference between right and wrong. Those who habitually choose the moral path—love of God and neighbor—thereby encourage this latency to surface, and eventually become conscious of their union with God. Those who habitually choose the immoral path—love of self, pride—do not.”

Timothy paused briefly to study my reaction, and then continued. “Suppose that my thesis is correct. Would it not follow that if ever a man were truly and completely sinless, which is to say utterly selfless and solely devoted to the love of God and his fellow man, his would be the immediate consciousness of unity with God?”

“That would follow.”

“And has Jesus not shown himself to be utterly selfless and devoted to the love of God and man, even to the point of death on the cross?”

“Certainly.”

“Then would we not expect him to declare, without the slightest doubt or hesitation, that ‘I and the Father are One?’”

“It seems, almost, you are saying that our Lord was no different than the rest of us, except for a higher consciousness of union with God—and that we all could experience such union if only we could achieve that kind of love,” I commented, with a bit of apprehension.

“In a way, Mark, yes; but as we have discussed earlier, I believe that our Lord was also divine by nature, an uncreated spirit, existing both with and as God before becoming incarnate. Our sharing in the divine nature is a created one, imparted through the very act of creation in God’s image. His is a necessary unity with God; ours is a contingent one. Surely he was different from the rest of us, in a way which enabled him
to experience union with God directly—in scriptural terms, to see the face of God directly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you recall how Moses asked to see God directly in all His glory, and was told by God that no man sees the face of God and lives; so God covered Moses’ eyes with His hand as He passed, and then let Moses see His back only?”

“Of course; meaning, as all Jews are taught, that God allows man to see Him only through His creations, which reflect His nature.” I recalled what Paul had written in one of his letters to Corinth: now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but when we come into the perfection of His kingdom we shall see Him face to face.

“You have been instructed well, Mark. But given his divine nature, the intimacy of his eternal relationship with the Father, surely our Lord was able to see the face of God in all of its glory. Yet as to his human experience of union with God, I see no reason to presume that his consciousness of union must have been essentially different from our own. Certainly it was more constant and more intense, given his selfless devotion and willingness to make such an ultimate sacrifice, but not different in kind on a human plane. Those rare and fleeting moments of rapturous presence you mentioned earlier when I asked you about experiencing the love of God; just imagine having that experience all the time, and perhaps you will have some approximate notion of the consciousness of union that our Lord must have had.”

“But how can any ordinary human being ever approximate our Lord’s experience of union with God, Timothy? Must we not live completely sinless lives in order to reach that stage of consciousness?”

“Not at all, Mark. If our sins are forgiven—which is the point of his death, as we have seen—and if we then strive toward the same love that he had for us, we can eventually come around to the same place, whether in this life or the next. God surely must recognize that our human frailties could serve as obstacles to such love, must He not?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Does it not make sense, then, for God to have given us a source of strength to help us overcome them?”

“It does.”

“I asked you earlier whether you felt God’s love; do you recall?”

“I do.”

“You described it as a fleeting awareness of the presence of a power beyond your comprehension, a connection to something greater than yourself, overwhelming you with a feeling of peace and serenity.”

“That is right.”

“And do you recall our earlier discussion that the goal of love is union with its object?”

“I do.”

“What you characterized as God’s love, I would characterize as God Himself, within you. He is there, in all of us, and the feeling of peace and serenity you described are but the byproducts of being in harmony with the living God who dwells within.”

Timothy’s explanation was hitting home. “You said you could not prove yourthesis logically, Timothy, yet I think I am persuaded!”

“Then the persuasion is through your heart rather than your head, Mark. But that is to be expected. Any quest for logical proof here is doomed to failure simply because the language of logic, like all language, grows out of our human experiences in the physical world. The experience of union with God must be expressed through metaphors and imagery, however imperfectly, because it transcends the concepts we are used to. Reasoning, ideas, and sensory images that grow out of the physical world and our emotional reactions to it are not useful here. The experience is more intuitive than logical. Perhaps a better word would be ‘mystical.’”

“Define ‘mystical.’”

“An awareness of God by direct experience rather than through logical reasoning. And, I contend, such direct experience of God is itself a gift, given most often, though not exclusively, to those who fervently seek Him.”

“But there are many fervent seekers of God throughout the world, Timothy, of all religions. Can direct experience of union with God be theirs as well, wholly apart from knowledge of our Lord, or even of the Jewish scriptures?”

“Why should we discount that possibility? There are writings from the East, for example the Sanskrit poem Song of God, which speak directly to the nature of the soul and its relationship to God, teaching that with pure motives and virtuous lives, those who seek God as the ultimate goal of life will realize union with the divine. Are such writings not evidence of the universality of mystical experience?”

“I suppose so. But then, of what advantage is being a follower of Christ?”

“Much advantage in every way, Mark. Throughout history, religions have been created by man, evolving from the universal sentiments of awe, reverence and wonder at the immensity or mystery of the universe, and from speculations of the human mind seeking a way to explain them. Proponents of such religions may, in their fervor, become conscious of themselves as being in some relation with their god or gods, leading to some form of mystical experience. But all of the things we have spoken of at length—the incarnation of God-become-man, the perfect sacrifice for sin, the blessings of the Eucharistic meal, the communion of believers into one body—all are unique to the Christian believer, and all of them facilitate the experience of direct union. And besides,” Timothy continued, “there is one more advantage that we have yet to discuss: the ultimate proof of the promise of eternal life, our Lord’s resurrection from the dead.”

I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of piecing together Timothy’s insights. “Let us discuss this now!” I insisted.

“I think, Mark, that tomorrow will be time enough to do so.” With that, Timothy yawned and arose to stretch his legs, and motioned for me to do likewise. “Come, it is time now for prayer; let us give thanks for our safe passage this windy day, and welcome the evening.”

@grace,

As one Trinitarian to another, I ask a favor: Please don't hijack my post. Your "160 Scriptural Reasons" will just draw fire from anti-Trinitarians, and the OP will just devolve from there. Take it elsewhere, please.

So, why the story I have quoted from at length above? Here’s my thinking in more academic terms:

All Christians pay attention to the role played by the crucifixion of Jesus Christ in their salvation. Some favor the “ransom” theory (Matthew 20:28/Mark 10:45) that by sinning, mankind became Satan’s captives, and Christ’s death redeemed mankind from Satan’s dominion (resulting in what Romans 6:16 characterizes as a change of masters), while others favor the “restitutional” or “penal substitution” theory that Christ paid the penalty for mankind’s sin―a death penalty imposed by God since the Fall of Adam and Eve (Genesis 2:17)―and thereby satisfied the legitimate demands of God’s justice. While the payees under each theory are different, there is widespread agreement on the fact of payment on Calvary.

But few Christians dwell on the related question of the necessary qualifications for playing that salvific role. We might ask the question this way: what must be the victim’s nature in order to induce the payee – be it Satan or God – to accept the deal? Would a sinless man fill the bill here? Or must the victim have been something more – and if so, how much more?

The early church fathers wrestled with this. For them, the manger rather than the Cross was at the center of the theological roundtable. They ultimately concluded that the ransom price was high indeed. They ultimately concluded that the victim must be divine. It was less a conclusion about what Satan’s psyche must have been in order to draw an admonition like “Thou shall not tempt the Lord they God.” It was more a conclusion about reversing the curse and repairing the rift between God and man.

And some of the patristic writers took it further. Athanasius’ fourth century work On the Incarnation famously states “God became man that man might become God.” He wasn’t blaspheming that we would all become equal to God. He was commenting on restoration of mankind’s union with God.

What helped me understand this was an exegesis of Paul’s use of the word pleroma – translated as “fullness” – twice in Colossians and twice in Ephesians. In Colossians, Paul attributes to Christ the fullness of God, Colossians 1:19 (“For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell”); Colossians 2:9 (“For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily”). And in Ephesians, he hints at that same fullness present in Christ being transferable to humanity, Ephesians 3:19 (“and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God”); Ephesians 4:13 (“until we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ”). For Paul, then, there was at least some sense in which mankind could, through Christ, attain to the divine. Athanasius worked it out in detail. Other patristics did to.

I think each of us has to. And I’ve tried to explain how I have, in the story I’ve quoted from earlier in this post, albeit heavily edited.

But there is more to say. I’ll pause to draw comments, and then try to address them.

APAK said:

The Father, his being, as the only God could never have died for our sins personally, and his being to not exist even for a moment. He used his created Son as his proxy to become this unblemished sacrifice for himself, in his stead.

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I think all Christians agree that God cannot die, PERIOD. So a fortiori God as God "could never have died for our sins personally, and his being to not exist even for a moment." That much is noncontroversial. It was Christ as a human being whose human body died on the cross. Whatever other nature Christ may have had besides his human nature -- divine or not -- never died on the cross.

But your proxy theory doesn't resonate with me. If Christ were both fully God and fully man, no divine proxy is needed, so why posit one? The human proxy, however, is a different matter. I accept the substitution of the crucified Christ for humanity, not for God.

Enoch111 said:

What Jesus said in Matthew 28:19 -- a direct quote -- was that God is a Trinity. So you have made two false statements in that one sentence.

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How do you know this is a direct quote?